


Sleep

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [75]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Rape, anal penetration, as in there is no plot or introspective characterisation, clearly, dark!Sherlock, john likes it up his bum, non-con, nonconsensual drugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5964220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock likes to watch John. Too bad John doesn't like being watched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep

There is extraordinary beauty in John when he sleeps. It is more than the carved lines of character, the animated tension of when he's awake. Sherlock doesn't generally notice people, not in that way. He recognises that John Watson would generally be considered well-looking, but to him it's always been about expression. Someone else would have called it soul, but Sherlock doesn't believe in souls. He believes in muscles and arteries and the knitted tissue of scars and it's these things he falls in love with in John Watson. He watches him, and it's only when John starts to notice and complain that Sherlock takes to slipping into his bedroom at night to watch him there for uninterrupted hours, and at first he's shocked at the difference it makes, John sleeping and John waking. The lines are smoothed, the tension is gone. He looks young. So young. Sherlock wants to touch him but he's afraid he'll wake him up.

So he slips in the drugs, because it's logical. He wants to touch John, John will wake up, ergo...

He makes the compound himself. He could buy it off the street but it's more intimate this way, and as Sherlock prepares it at the kitchen table he finds that he is happy, a settled feeling in the pit of his stomach that he hasn't felt before, as if for precious minutes the world has finally stopped turning. He hums over his test tubes and his droppers and in the sitting room John asks him what he's smiling about.

"Experiment," Sherlock says shortly, because he doesn't want to ruin the surprise.

Dosing John is easy. He has a beer every night with dinner and Sherlock simply slips it into his glass when he's turned away for a few seconds, picking up the knife that Sherlock had dropped.

"Clumsy," John chides, and Sherlock smiles benignly at him and watches him drink his beer.

It works quickly, far more quickly than Sherlock had anticipated, and he watches with a subdued glee as John starts to sag over his dinner plate, his eyes getting heavier, his limbs growing sluggish. After twenty minutes he tries to stand up, mumbling something about a nap, and Sherlock has to help him. John makes a motion towards the couch but Sherlock steers him towards his bedroom, guiding him up the fifteen steps to the attic room and when he lays John down on the bed there is a look on John's face, like confusion, as he tries to concentrate on Sherlock.

"The beer," John slurs. "What did you do?"

Sherlock hushes him. "Don't worry, John" he says, "I'm here," then he sits back and he waits and watches as John's limbs get heavier and heavier and Sherlock wonders if one can orgasm from simply observing another human being become more beautiful.

He doesn't wait until John is asleep, only until he's fully sedated, his limbs refusing to work, all possible ability to protest gone. But John still watches him, twin slivers of blue beneath hooded lids and Sherlock can feel his cock hardening in his trousers because he knows John can see him when he stands up and moves towards him. He knows John is watching when he begins to strip off all of John's layers, turning him about on the bed to pull off every last stitch of clothing. He knows that John knows when he's naked because those tired eyes blink up at him and there's a gleam in them like fear and Sherlock almost comes right then, spraying his semen on the perfect body below.

He doesn't undress himself. Not this time. Next time, perhaps, he will indulge in the pleasure of feeling John's skin against his skin. But for now it seems fitting that he stay dressed while John is naked. It seems right that John can see them like this, so that he can know without thinking about it which one of them is in charge. So he simply unclasps his zip and pulls the swollen length of his cock and the tight twin sacs of his testicles out, buttoning the top of the trousers back around them so that they jut out, obscene and stark against the dark material of his clothes.

He keeps John on his back. He wants John to see as well as feel, at least this first time. Later perhaps he will take John from behind, pump into his limp body while his face is pressed into the blankets, aware of nothing but darkness and the invading press of the cock in his arse. But that's for later, for next time. For this time, Sherlock wants there to be no mistaking, wants John to know who is inside him.

He had been careful and had gotten lube. He knows the anal wall can be delicate but resistance tends to come from tension, he knows, and there is no tension left in John's body. He spread's John's thighs around him on the bed and kneels there, his cock hard and his balls tight, and he simply stares at John for a minute, wanting to remember this. He lets his gaze linger on the place between John's legs and is pleased to see that John's cock is soft and unresponsive. He bends down and he licks a stripe up it and it twitches and Sherlock stops just short of laughing with glee. It will be fun experimenting with this, playing with keeping John soft or hard as the mood strikes him. He wonders what the body's response will be when he is fully sheathed inside and he decides that the best way to find out is to check firsthand, so he raises John's legs to his shoulders and sits up, pulling John's hips off the bed and he can already feel John's heat on the length of his cock, only just barely prodding at the place behind his balls. He pushes his hips a little bit forward, not to enter but to tease and against his belly John's cock begins to swell.

Sherlock grins and pushes a little harder. "So beautiful like this," he says, and pushes again before he remembers he's forgotten the lube. With a casual strike, he slaps sharply against John's balls and watches as his cock goes flaccid again. "Not yet. I haven't decided if you should come yet," Sherlock says and under their heavy lids John's eyes glitter dully up at him.

He coats his cock well, making sure it is thickly slathered on as he has no intention of preparing John. He wants to make sure John can see him so he straddles his chest while he does it, lets the lube-wet length slap against John's chin as he runs his hand over it. At the last minute he nudges John's mouth open with the tip and simply dips it inside, letting the heat of John's tongue settle against the head before pulling back out, leaving a trail of saliva and lube around his lips and down his chin. Then judging that he is ready, Sherlock moves back between John's legs and pulls them up again, lifting John's hips, and with a single slow move, he pushes his way inside.

There is resistance. It surprises Sherlock because he wasn't expecting it. He looks sharply at John and those two blue slits glitter wrathfully back and Sherlock grins, his teeth clenched as he pants in heaving breaths because John feels _good,_ tight and hot and in the end it's no match for the hard slick length of Sherlock's cock forcing its way inside. Sherlock _pushes_ and he doesn't stop until his balls are tight against John's arse and Sherlock looks down at the place where they're joined and it's beautiful, it's so beautiful. He moves a little, just a few short thrusts because he wants to see what it looks like, the slide of _him_ fucking in and out of that stretched red hole, and he's so intent on it he almost doesn't notice that John is hard again, his cock swollen and red and tight against his belly. He wonders if he can make John come like this and he starts moving a little more, a little deeper, a little harder, and John's limp body makes no resistance at the incursion, sliding on and off Sherlock's pushing cock, his entire body shifting up and down with each thrust that Sherlock makes. The force of it bends his neck back and Sherlock doesn't like that, doesn't like that John isn't able to see, so he makes a note to look into possible restraints for the future, possibly a sling of some kind, something to keep John still, and he decides that when this is over he will have to test the weight bearing capacity of the ceiling. Not now, however.

John's body is hot and stretches and Sherlock _fits,_ though barely, and he couldn't stop himself now if he tried. He doesn't _want_ to try. His hips are moving entirely on their own and Sherlock keeps his eyes downwards, on his own huge cock somehow managing to slide so easily in and out of John's tiny hole, its edges stretched beyond capacity. He wonders how far he could stretch that little thing, wonders how much he could fit in there until something broke, and at the thought he comes, a sudden uncoiling rush that is out of his control and he yells, shoving himself in as deep as he can go, feeling John's hole sucking him in and swallowing him down until he's dry and panting and his cock, soft and sensitive, slides out of the gaping blackness.

Like a small fountain, his come trickles out after him and Sherlock, disappointed, tries stuffing it back in with a finger but it won't stay, so instead he scoops it up and with his fingers scrapes it off on John's tongue. It's only as he does that, leaning down over John's body, that he notices that at some point John has come as well, his belly slick with it, his cock soft and diminished in the coarse hairs of his groin. Sherlock licks it off of him, tasting the musk of his new lover and memorising it.

And then, with them both clean, Sherlock leaves the bed. He settles John into a more comfortable position and covers him with a blanket and then he sits in the chair and he watches as the last edges of consciousness slips away and those two bright slivers disappear. Sherlock waits, several hours, just to be sure, but when John shows no evidence of anything other than a deep sleep he finally gets up and leaves. There is a text message on his phone from Lestrade but he ignores it, settling in his chair with the laptop to wait.

It's nine hours before there's sound from upstairs, another hour before John appears, pale and sick looking and Sherlock makes a mental note to fix that. John doesn't say a word, but he avoids Sherlock's gaze for hours and when they get called out for a case Sherlock notices that he's having trouble running, as if something is paining him, and Sherlock gets a sudden vivid memory of that hole stretched around him and he smiles.

That night, hours later, when it's nearly not even night anymore, they stumble back home, grinning and laughing and everything is as it always has been, nothing has broken, and when Sherlock makes himself tea he gets a beer for John, opening it at the kitchen table and doctoring it with a deft hand. He brings it to John and for the first time, when John looks at him, Sherlock sees the same flash from the night before. He can feel himself harden in his pants and he wonders how quickly twenty minutes can go past. He holds out the beer, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

And John. John looks at him. Looks at the beer. And then without breaking eye contact with Sherlock he takes it and slowly, slowly swallows it down.


End file.
